The State of Being Okay
by mickeydubs
Summary: Life is hard. Things happen. And sometimes, it's okay to not be okay. When tragedy strikes the Berry family, aid comes to Rachel in the form of an unexpected kind-of-friend. Faberry. Reposting in lieu of the story being taken down by the site because of an inappropriate word in the summary.


**The State of Being Okay**

_This time last year, I was sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to draw hearts in the snow._

It's hard, breaking down. It's painful, and it drains energy from the body. It leaves one with an ache in the chest cavity. It leaves one empty, and without any desire to even temporarily fill the void. It makes tears easy and breathing difficult.

When one is alone, breaking down is simple, logical, even. When one is alone, the space seems that much farther, the silence that much louder. When one is alone, all it takes is to let the eyes close and the darkness consume. It's easy to feel like there really is no one who cares, like one could fade into nonexistence, and the world would go on turning as if you were never there in the first place. And it would. When one is alone, breaking down occurs because nothing that is good is real. There are no strong arms to encircle one's middle and hold on until the shaking halt and the pain is forgotten. There are no soothing voices coming in to calm the ones in one's head. There is no one to release it all onto; no one to hear one's words and take the hurt onto themselves. When one is alone, all there is to do is curl into oneself, as small as possible, to keep every muscle taught, because any relaxation is getting off too easy, to let one's lungs struggle, to squeeze one's eyelids shut so that the store of saltwater in the body might not exhaust so quickly. When one is alone, one always deserves for it to last as long as it can. When one is alone, one's nerves are more aware. That's why the malaise is more acute, because the cell's in one's body take it that much more harshly. At least, that's the theory.

In reality, though, breaking down alone is facile in comparison.

The tribulation of breaking down is magnified tenfold when one is surrounded by people. The sympathetic eyes and placating coos, the effort of appearing to stand strong so that they might all look away, the knowledge of how quick everyone is to believe that it's all okay again, because it's what they want; it's agony to force unused lips into a strained smile so that others will stop their worrying. It's a dull, but constant, anguish to always be the one to take care of everyone else, to make sure that their pain never lasts too long, because when one fills that role for enough time, without anyone to fill that role for them, that which they take on overcomes them entirely. It weighs on one's limbs and flows in one's veins. It dries out one's throat and soaks one's ducts, fills the stomach and empties the heart. To mask one's pain to keep others from feeling any of it is to subject oneself to it in even sharper clarity, to charade one's way through their lines of vision in faux contentment only to have a larger cut of oneself chipped away with the realization that nobody wants to notice that one is not okay.

It is one thing to break down when one is alone by oneself. It is another thing entirely to break down when one is alone with people by one's side in every direction.

_This year, there is barely even snow on the ground._

"Broken hearts are hard to fix," he said, "but you don't need to worry, okay, bumblebee? You and your dad get to keep my hot glue gun."

She let out a strangled chuckle that sounded more like a sob, and the tears that had been waiting patiently in the corners of her eyes finally made their escape down her cheeks.

"Hey now, none of that," he placed his big, papa bear paw on her elbow and rubbed lazy circles with his thumb. "I'll be good where I'm going. I'm covered." He watched her cast her eyes downward. He could see her struggling not to scold him loudly for speaking like that. "Listen to me, baby girl. It's okay to miss me when I'm gone. And we both know I'm going. But I need you to promise me that you won't forget to keep living _your_ life."

He brought a hand up to her cheek so he could dab some of the moisture away with the pad of his thumb. Her eyes, which were rumored to be the spitting image of his own, refused to meet his gaze.

"Hey, baby girl, look at me."

She turned her gaze to her right, away from him.

"Come on, bumblebee, you're not even going to look at your dying daddy?"

She closed her eyes completely.

"Rachel Barbara Berry, you look at me right now!" Her eyes flew open, and they glistened with the tears streaming down her face as they finally met his. He tried and failed to keep his voice from cracking as he all but whispered, "Your life doesn't end when mine does."

She stood from her perch on the side of his bed and clamped her jaw shut to keep her lip from trembling. She watched his polka dotted hospital gown rustle as he sat himself up a little straighter. The harsh fluorescent lights made him look like a ghost already.

She shook her head silently and fled the room.

_Any hearts I would draw now would be broken and lopsided anyway. _

It's funny how easy it is to manipulate people when they feel sorry for you.

Everyone has that little trigger in their heart that hates to see sadness in other people, and when one's attention is required by seas of people, it is easiest to allow the one with the heavy heart to go off and ride out their depression on their own.

It is funny how often people ask, demand, want to be alone until their request is granted.

It is one of the worst self-tortures to order everyone to leave you be and watch as, one by one, each of them obey. It is one of the most painful psychological tricks to tell the world that you're fine, and then waste away waiting for someone to come along and tell you that you're not.

It's hard for people to know how to help people who are in emotional distress. It's even harder when the person won't admit to wanting help in the first place. (No one ever wants to admit that they are the owner of a heart that needs repair.)

Wallowing in self pity is easier than letting somebody else comfort you. Accepting assistance may patch some of the holes in one's heart, but more often than not, it leaves one with a bruised ego.

_It's been raining, and it's cold. It is only too easy to slip on the ice and fall right on your butt._

"Please leave me alone."

"Why?" A pause. "Are you crying? What's wrong?" A confused frown. Typical.

"Look, no offense, but why do you even care? If I were covered in one of your slushies, you'd be in and out of here without batting an eyelash."

Quinn wrung her hands and stared at the linoleum bathroom floor. It was strange seeing it without the colorful stains from various icy drinks like the ones in McKinley. "I'm sorry."

Rachel sniffed noisily and put her hands on her hips. She'd had a hard time meeting anyone's eyes that day, so she alternated between staring at the cross necklace at the blonde's collarbone, the wisp of white-blonde hair just behind her left ear, and her exposed knees.

She was knocked a little off balance when the girl started talking again and she realized that she'd been snapped out of thoughts of appreciation for the shape of Quinn's legs.

Tears came to her eyes a little hotter. What was she doing admiring someone's legs at a time like this? She was in a hospital for pete's sake! Wait a minute…

Sniff. "What are you even-" sniff "doing-" sniff "here?" She ended with a long, pathetic sniffle and swiped at her nose uselessly. She leaned against the nearest sink and grasped the edge for something to do with her hands.

Quinn took a couple of steps further into the bathroom, feeling a bit more comfortable having been accepted into conversation. When she registered the question, however, her bright, grass green eyes darkened a bit. "Oh, um, my mom. She's getting…"

Rachel's wide eyes brimmed with curiosity. "What?"

Quinn sighed and rubbed her face. "My mom just got her stomach pumped. Alcohol poisoning. My dad decided to actually come home last night… and I mean, he knows things would be easier for everyone if he just left, but… So anyway. I'm here with her." Her tongue poked out to swipe at her chapped lips. "Why are you here?"

Reality crashed down on Rachel again and she was glad she had the sink to hold her up, because the weight that threatened to crush her had buckled her knees.

She couldn't respond. She could barely make a sound without losing control and wailing her lungs out. Sobs wracked her whole body.

Quinn looked as though she were about to ask if she should leave and then bold from the restroom, but at the last second, her face set in a determined look, and she marched across the fake tile and, without warning, wrapped her arms around Rachel's waist.

Rachel was shocked for a moment. She was also numb. Her learned animal survival instincts blared sirens at her to run away from the situation, but after fighting with herself for almost a minute, she let her arms limply circle around Quinn's back. She let her head fall into the crook of Quinn's neck, and her overflowing eyes hid themselves in her shoulder. She was probably ruining Quinn's shirt. She tried a couple of times to apologize, but her words came out incoherent and unrecognizable.

Quinn shushed her and told her it was okay.

After several minutes filled with the sounds of muffled whimpers and abrupt, throaty cries, Rachel's body started to calm down and she picked her face back up. Her nose was running marathons, and every time she blinked, a few more drops spilled over and down her cheeks. Her chest was tight, and each breath shook her torso as they got caught going in and out. Her knuckles were white from her fingers gripping the fabric of the blonde's shirt so tightly.

It was too much. This was too much for one person. No one should ever be able to handle a pain like this. Rachel couldn't. The world around her carried too much weight, and it was all suddenly packed onto her shoulders.

She sank to the floor, not realizing that she half pulled Quinn down with her. Quinn took it in stride. She made no comment, just sat by Rachel's side with one arm still keeping a hold of her.

_It doesn't matter that no one saw me fall. The tracks are still there in that thin dusting of precipitation that was just enough to hide the ice in the first place._

People, as a race, are born with a natural curiosity. Everyone loves to feel that they know things about everyone else. People love to talk – about themselves, about each other, about everybody else.

Everyone has things about them that they want no one to know about; secrets, they're called. For some reason, the human brain is wired to want, crave, need to become privy to these unknowns about other people, and for some, when these sacred confidentialities are actualized, hinted at, rumored about, the urge to share becomes irresistible. Those secrets that are kept so close to one's heart that it would take an invasive cardiothoracic surgery to get near it; those are the ones that interest people. Nothing is attention-getting if one can find it by scratching at the skin. Secrets are secrets for a reason.

Nothing is fascinating if it is easily accessible.

People like to pry at privacy because uncovering whatever is hidden is their prize for the effort of digging it up. The harder one tries to cover it up, the deeper one buries it, the more valuable it becomes to those who treasure hunt for it.

So goes the saying, "knowledge is power." Holding information, facts that are coveted and actively sought out by others, gives one authority. Being the one to hand out news makes one, however temporarily, important. It really is no wonder why gossip spreads so quickly. As soon as one learns something remotely scandalous or terrible or anything that isn't average about someone else, they rush off to tell another so that they might appear knowledgeable, wise, in the loop. People like to be able to say that they knew first.

Secrets are difficult to keep; difficult, but not impossible.

_The temperature here never stays the same for long. Whatever snow there was has melted._

Rachel dabbed at her eyes with a paper towel. Getting Mr. Schuester to let her leave class had taken very little. Every teacher in the school knew. Word traveled fast in a town like Lima. Everywhere she looked she was met with nothing but people with eyes that were filled with pity and mouths that had no idea what to say.

It had been eleven days since she walked out the doors of the hospital with only one of her fathers.

The bathroom door swung open with a creak. She turned quickly to hide in one of the stalls but stopped when she saw who it was.

She swiped her nose as subtly as she could with the paper towel and tossed it in the trashcan before she addressed the girl by the door. "This is getting to be a pattern with us."

Quinn's lips quirked up a bit at that. Rachel was instantly grateful that the blonde wasn't afraid of smiling around her like everyone else seemed to be. "I saw you run out of Spanish. I thought, you know, maybe you could use somebody."

Rachel bit her lip. "I appreciate the sentiment, Quinn, but I'm fine."

Quinn looked at her appraisingly for a long while. "No you're not." She continued before Rachel could express her indignance at Quinn assuming she knew anything about how she was. "I know you're not fine. You haven't been fine since that day at the hospital. And that's okay. When this kind of thing happens, it's okay to not be okay. Your dad… everyone around you is trying so hard to get you to be happy and bubbly again that you feel bad for not feeling better for them. But sometimes you just need to _feel it_, you know? Shit happens, and sometimes you have to take a step back and just feel bad for a while. And people don't acknowledge it because they just want you to be good again. I know it's not the same, but the first time my mom went to the hospital, my dad skipped town for three days. My sister was so busy making sure that _I was good_, that _I was okay_, that she didn't notice that I _wasn't_ fine, and she wasn't either. I know you're not fine, because you look exactly the way she was afraid I would look."

Rachel wiped away the persistent tears that made shiny wet streaks down the planes of her face. Quinn crossed the bathroom and got her a new paper towel from the dispenser. Their hands brushed when the brunette accepted it, and she could have sworn she felt some sort of electric shock.

Quinn made no move to exit the restroom, but Rachel felt that panicky need to keep conversation going before she got bored and left. "So," she gestured with her head toward the door, "is everyone out there laughing at the story of how Rachel Berry had an emotional breakdown on a gross bathroom floor?"

The blonde looked confused for a moment. "How would they even know about that?"

Rachel looked up at her through her eyelashes. "You didn't tell anyone?"

A slight frown creased Quinn's brow. "It didn't really seem like the type of story I'd need to share."

"It would be excellent ammo if you were to try to knock me down a few more pegs at this school."

Quinn turned her body to fully face Rachel. "Sorry to disappoint, but destroying your life hasn't been my objective for quite some time now."

"Oh?" Rachel almost chuckled. "Do you have some new agenda regarding following me into bathrooms when I'm crying?"

Quinn's face was serious. "Sort of." She took two steps forward, effectively closing the distance between herself and the brunette. Before Rachel knew what was happening, soft, forceful lips were pressed against her own, and there was a hand at the small of her back and another on the back of her neck. As quickly as it started, it was over, and suddenly Quinn was stepping back, away from her. "I'm not going to tell anyone about that, either, until you want me to. I know it's a lot."

Quinn walked back towards the bathroom door and Rachel could only watch her. She paused with her hand on the door's handle. "Hey Rachel?" She all but snapped to attention. "It will get to be okay eventually."

_La fin._


End file.
